I stepped onto the Fiverton campus with my head held high. Every late night of studying, every obstacle I'd fought through—this was the moment it had all led to. I had earned my place here, and I wasn't about to let anyone take that away. I promised myself I would work just as hard here as I had before, and aim for nothing less than the top.
The hallways were exactly what I'd imagined—sleek, modern, and full of history at the same time. Rows of polished lockers lined the walls, and the students moving past carried themselves with quiet confidence, books clutched under their arms, conversations about projects and research filling the air. For a heartbeat, I just stood there, soaking it in, still half-in awe that I was really here.
In my hand was a sheet of paper with instructions: report to the Vice-Chancellor's office to sign the last of my enrollment documents. I tightened my grip, took a deep breath, and started down the corridor. This was the first step in a brand-new chapter—and I was determined to make it count.
Clutching the paper, I glanced around, unsure which way to go. Spotting two students chatting by a noticeboard, I approached and asked for directions. They smiled warmly, pointing me toward a quiet corridor at the end of the hall.
"Thank you," I said, relief softening the nervous flutter in my chest. Fiverton already felt intimidating, but at least the people seemed kind.
A few minutes later, I spotted the brass plate on a polished oak door: Vice-Chancellor's Office. I paused, straightened my blazer, and knocked—firm but calm.
"Come in," a voice called.
Only then did I turn the handle and step inside, heart steady, ready to face the next step of this journey.
Inside, the office smelled faintly of polished wood and old books. Behind a broad mahogany desk sat a man in his fifties, spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose. He looked up slowly, eyes scanning me from head to toe.
I felt a lump rise in my throat and forced a slow breath out, willing my nerves to settle. The silence stretched—long enough that I began to count the seconds in my head.
At last, he straightened in his chair, adjusted his tie, and spoke.
"You must be the new student… Miss Aisha, right?"
His voice was measured, deliberate, as if weighing every word.
"Yes, I am. Good morning, sir," I said, giving a small, respectful bow.
He gave a short nod, gathered the papers from his desk, and signed where needed, his movements precise and unhurried. Without a word, he reached into a leather folder and slid a fresh sheet across the desk.
"This is your course outline," he said, adjusting his spectacles. "Classes begin tomorrow. The times and venues are listed here. Report directly to your first lecture."
I accepted the papers with both hands. "Thank you, sir."
He nodded once more, already glancing at the next file on his desk. I eased the door shut behind me, the soft click of the latch echoing in the quiet hallway. Clutching the outline, I exhaled—relief, excitement, and the faintest flutter of anticipation for the journey ahead.